The World's Only Consulting Love Detective
by FDR Babe
Summary: Sherlock has ruined yet another of John's relationships. With the Officers' Ball looming on the horizon, Sherlock offers his assistance in finding John a date. Will his help finally push John over the edge?
1. Chapter 1

"But. . . ."

"Sorry, John. I just don't feel this is working out."

"But. . . ."

"You're a really great guy and all, but I feel like we're in some sort of weird three-way relationship, but without the sex."

"But. . . ."

"Look, I'm sorry about this, especially with the Officers' Ball next week. It just isn't meant to be. Hopefully, you'll find somebody else to go with you. Take care, John."

John lowered his mobile from his ear and stared at it uncomprehendingly for several moments before pressing the screen to end the call.

"AHHHHHHHHHH," he howled spinning rapidly around and pointing the phone at his flatmate who was working unconcernedly on his latest experiment at the kitchen table.

"_You_!" John growled. "This is all _your_ fault!"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock responded without looking up from his microscope. "I do not see how you can blame your inability to retain a relationship on me, John."

"Oh really? I suppose incessant phone calls during dates, surprise visits at my girlfriends' houses, and blunt deductions about every aspect of the lives of each girl I bring home don't have anything to do with it? Christ, Sherlock, Liz is the fifth girl in as many months to break up with me. And I really liked her! Now I don't have a date for the Officers' Ball," moped John.

"I thought doctors were supposed to be quite the catch with the ladies?" sneered Sherlock, turning his attention back to his microscope.

The doctor in question scoffed. "Apparently that doesn't apply to doctors with Sociopathic flatmates."

"Really, John. If this ball of yours is that important to you, I will find you a date for the event. Now, I'm bored with this conservation and wish to get back to my experiment."

John stared disbelievingly at the man. "_Excuse _me? _You_ are going to find _me_ a date? _Ohhhhhhhhh_. I see it now. Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting _Love_ Detective." Widening his eyes, clasping his hands in front of his chest, and kicking one ankle out to the side, John pleaded in a falsetto voice, "Oh, Mr. Holmes. I appear to be missing a date for the ball? Will you please, pretty please, find me a date?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock merely huffed in irritation at John's sarcasm and proceeded to ignore him.

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm going to go out for a very long walk and hope that some of that genius and overabundant ego of yours will rub off on me long enough for me to come up with a solution to this situation. Thanks for nothing, mate! And with that the doctor grabbed his coat and stormed out of 221B with a slam of the door punctuating his departure.

The detective's only reaction was a sly smile, and a mumbled, "You'll see John. You'll see."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: John's direct inner thoughts are reflected in italics.**

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The next few hours found John roaming through the streets of London attempting to find a solution to his problem. With the Officers' Ball looming on the horizon, he didn't have enough time to acquaint himself adequately with a new girl in order to ask her to the affair. That narrowed his choices down to women he already was familiar with – and it wasn't a large pool to choose from. One by one, he examined the possibilities.

_Molly. Hmmm. Cleans up nicely if that Christmas party at 221B was anything to judge by. Of course, one look at a room full of Army officers would probably send shy, meek Molly Hooper scurrying under the closest table or behind the nearest potted plant._

_Sally Donovan. Never seen Sally in anything but her professional outfits, so no idea how she would look in formal dress. Though judging by her physique, probably not bad at all._ But John was turned off by the possibility of Sally slipping into one of her sarcastic, bad attitude rants if a comment or situation didn't meet her approval or expectations. And with a shudder, the former soldier realized he would never hear the end of it from Sherlock if he escorted the consulting detective's New Scotland Yard nemesis to the ball. His thoughts quickly moved on to the next potential candidate.

_Sarah. Intelligent, beautiful, classy. The perfect date! _Except that after the kidnapping and trauma she experienced during the Blind Banker case it was highly likely that the last thing she wanted was another date with him.

_Anthea. _He dismissed that one right off the bat. _Sexy as Mycroft's assistant is sure to be in an evening gown, she would undoubtedly spend the entire evening with her mobile glued to her hand and her eyes glued to her mobile. _John enjoyed an internal giggle as he pictured Anthea slow dancing with him while texting away behind his back. _Probably reporting back to Mycroft as if the man doesn't already know too much about my life as it is! Either that or helping her boss to arrange the next military coup in some unheard of but highly important third world nation._

_Mrs. Hudson_. Well now. He had some pride after all. And as sweet and generous as Mrs. Hudson was, the thought of entering the ballroom with his elderly landlady just wasn't cutting it. _Besides, with my luck, some older widowed officer in need of a motherly figure to accompany him through his dotage would probably swoop down and steal her away and I'd still end up alone for the evening._

There was always Harry, but the last thing he needed was to bring his alcoholic sister to an event that was sure to be overflowing with overwhelmingly tempting beverages. And there was something that smacked of desperation in bringing your sister - especially to such an illustrious affair. John shuddered at the remembrance of being forced to bring Harry to a school dance at which she thoroughly humiliated him by flirting with one of his female classmates. _No, never again!_

Ah, but there was always Sherlock. He had, after all, promised to find John a date had he not? John shook his head at the thought.

There was nothing for it. John Watson, the man famous in the army for having a love life that spanned three continents, would have to attend the ball alone and make up some sort of excuse that his date couldn't make it at the last moment. How the mighty fall.

Resigned to his fate, John made his way back home to the mad nutter he called flatmate, and apparently the only stable relationship he was able to maintain.

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**A/N: Up next – Sherlock comes through with his promise of a date for John, but will John make it through the Officers' Ball with his dignity intact?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So. . . . . . I truly meant to wrap up the story in this chapter, but after struggling for quite some time with it, decided to give in and split the remainder of the story into this chapter and one more.**

* * *

The day of the Officers' Ball arrived. The event was an important one to John because it was honoring the retirement of a high-ranking and well-respected officer John had served with in Afghanistan as part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

It was also the first time since he was invalided home that he would be seeing some of his fellow officers. Quite frankly, he missed the camaraderie of his army days. As much as he enjoyed his often-chaotic life with Sherlock, only fellow soldiers truly understood how life in a war zone shapes and changes you forever.

After taking some time to shower and dress, John examined himself in the wardrobe mirror, giving his reflection a quick, soldierly nod of approval before heading down the stairs.

"Sherlock," he called as he made his way towards the living area while brushing away nearly invisible specks of lint from the sleeves of his dress uniform. "I'm on my way out to. . . ." His speech was abruptly cut off as his eyes focused on the view in front of him, which happened to be a pair of long, slim legs crossed elegantly at the knees and encased in a pair of luminescent sheer stockings, finished off by a pair of lethal-looking stilettos.

Allowing his eyes to drift upwards, he found the figure, seated in Sherlock's chair, was dressed in a stunning royal blue floor-length evening gown, slit up one side, and finished by a semi-sheer silver silk scarf wrapped loosely around the throat with one end draped over the front of the left shoulder and the other end over the back. The scarf was fastened at the shoulder by a small silver pin in the shape of a skull with faceted sapphires adorning the eyeholes. John's eyes continued their journey, discovering shoulder-length ebony curls, expertly applied makeup, and . . . a pair of exceedingly familiar light gray-blue eyes.

"Sherlock! What the hell is going on here?"

In a husky, albeit feminine voice, the consulting detective – or rather currently detectress – responded by gracefully standing up and offering a hand to the bewildered doctor. "Dr. Watson, so good to meet you. Let me introduce myself. Shirley Holmes, your date for the evening."

John shook the offered hand automatically, before yanking his own hand away. "Once again, Sherlock, _what_ is going on?" he demanded in a dangerously even voice, straightening himself into his captain's stance and glaring directly into his flatmate's eyes – though he did have to tilt his head back somewhat more than usual thanks to the stilettos.

"Did I not promise to find you a date for this evening, John? Once again, I have delivered as promised," the infuriatingly smug man smirked, returning to his normal voice. "Now, before we set off, would you be so kind as to look me over, and let me know if anything is amiss?" queried Sherlock, slowly rotating in place.

Taking advantage of the situation, John finally took a close look at the madman. Sherlock's attraction to high-end clothing was reflected in the obviously expensive designer dress. And as with his shirts, the man seemed to favor clothes that were, uh . . . _quite_ fitted.

"How on earth did you manage those?" John asked, waving his hand at his chest area. "And hide . . . you know" gesturing to the nether regions. "Know what? Never mind. You look fine Sherlock, other than now being ridiculously taller than me, rather than just somewhat taller. Come on, how do you honestly expect to pull this off?

"I have it all under control, John. No need to worry. Just follow my lead."

"That's what I'm worried about," John mumbled. "Look Sherlock, this is a very special evening for me, and I'd rather not be made to look the fool. Believe it or not, I was quite respected in the army in my own right, unlike these days where I just seem to be known as Sherlock Holmes' humble assistant."

Sherlock's face softened somewhat at John's comment. "John, when will you realize that you are _so much more_ than just my assistant? Rather, I think you are better known as Sherlock Holmes' handler," he finished with a small smirk. "Now, where is that Watsonian sense of adventure and danger you thrive on?"

John merely snorted in response, going to retrieve his wallet, phone, and the invitation for the ball from the nearby table.

The detective took the opportunity to closely examine his faithful blogger. "Why John," Sherlock drawled, " you clean up quite nicely."

The doctor shuddered. "Sherlock, I felt like you were channeling Mycroft right then."

Sherlock's face took on a look of distaste. "Really, John. If your normal mode of conversation with the women you date is to insult them, no wonder your relationships sour so quickly. Then again, most of them are so idiotic that I expect they aren't able to differentiate between a slight and a compliment."

Sherlock plucked a small silver clutch from the coffee table and John noticed that the clasp was in the form of a small skull that matched his flatmate's scarf pin.

"Seriously, Sherlock. What is this obsession with skulls? I really think you've got the wrong bloke for tonight. Moriarty would seem to be a better match."

At the detective's raised brow of inquiry, John clarified. "Well, he's already clearly fixated with you and judging by his necktie during the pool incident, he too enjoys accessorizing with skulls. Seems like a match made in heaven. Or more like hell," he muttered as an afterthought.

"Do try a little harder to not be such an idiot, John."

"Ah, now _there_ is the git we all know and love. Are you going to be able to navigate with those shoes?" John asked, eyeing the stilettos doubtfully.

"As you know, John, I am a man of many talents, some which are obviously unknown to you. In a case I took on several years before we met, I needed to find information on a suspect linked to a drag club, and . . . ."

"Alright, alright, I _get_ it," John interrupted, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "Hidden talents and all that. Look, if we are going to go through with this charade – because frankly there is no other word for it – we need to get a move on or we'll be late."

"Honestly," Sherlock huffed, "you _really _must work on your anger issues and sarcasm, John. I'm surprised you find anyone to date you at all!" And with that, the consulting detective flounced out of the room and down the stairs.

Taking a few deep breaths, the doctor followed his flatmate. _This is going to be a very, very long evening_.

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**A/N: I PROMISE that the next chapter will finally wind things up.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And _finally_, the conclusion. . .**

* * *

Despite best intentions, Sherlock's "reveal" and London traffic conspired to make the duo arrive late to the ball's venue, resulting in them missing the pre-dinner cocktails and mingling. Though in John's mind, that was not necessarily a bad thing as it prevented - or at the very least delayed - any awkward interaction between his flatmate and other guests at the event. He had already suffered through the cab driver's raised brow of inquiry at hearing the very masculine voice emitting from his very feminine looking friend.

Upon arrival, they were shown directly to their assigned table where the first course was already being served while the speeches were underway. In the dimmed lighting of the room, John recognized a number of the other officers seated at the table and exchanged nods of greeting.

Knowing Sherlock's patience threshold was likely to be extremely low during the dinner – and fearing what the outcome of such boredom would be – the doctor subtly requested that his flatmate hand over his mobile. Muting the device, and doing the same to his own, John handed it back to Sherlock who received it with a questioning look.

John proceeded to discretely text his "date", requesting deductions on various randomly selected people around the room.

The detective was only too delighted to comply, and they happily spent the meal entertaining themselves, with John grabbing bites to eat along the way.

_Anything interesting about the young woman with the general over at the next table? – JW_

**She clearly is the general's niece. It is evident from the buttons on the general's uniform that his wife developed a sudden case of the hives from a new lotion she purchased. Refusing to attend without a companion, the general arrived unannounced at his sister's house, absconding with his niece who was on her way to perform at a piano recital as can be determined by her purse. - SH**

_Right. I see. No, in fact I don't see. Fine. What about the waiter standing by the doorway? – JW_

**Ah, yes. ****From the state of his trouser leg and the way he positions his arms he is not working this event for employment. At least not the legal kind. He is colluding with a team of thieves, and is scoping out the wealthiest and most prominent guests and reporting their presence here to his accomplices who are proceeding to enter the homes of said guests and relieve them of their more valuable belongings – SH**

_What? – JW_

**Oh do stop worrying, John. I've already texted Lestrade so he can alert the proper authorities. - SH**

The two friends continued their back and forth texting for some time. Unfortunately for John, even the most lengthy of dinners and tedious array of speakers must eventually come to end, renewing his anxiety on how the evening would progress with his unpredictable companion. The dessert plates and remaining glasses were whisked away from the tables and the lights in the room brought up as the guests were again encouraged to mingle and prepare for upcoming dancing.

Demonstrating his popularity as a soldier and confident leadership as an officer, John was quickly approached by several officers he had befriended during his service, and who were anxious to renew their acquaintanceship with Captain Watson.

Throughout it all, Sherlock kept flawlessly to his Shirley persona, charming all who approached, yet still allowing John to shine.

Despite the uncertainty that marked the beginning of the evening, John was beginning to relax, believing that it was indeed possible for their charade to pass uneventfully. That was, until a new presence intruded on the group, accompanied by a voice John Watson would have preferred to never hear again.

"Well, well. If it isn't Captain Watson. Come to be petted and admired for your heroics, Captain?"

If possible, John's already ramrod straight posture stiffened even further, but before he could respond, the voice continued.

"Who's this, Watson? Who'd you pay off to get his lovely as your date?" the intruder leered at Sherlock.

Turning his eyes the speaker, Sherlock was shocked to see in passing the steely coldness in his friend's eyes.

"Walters. I must say I'm not only surprised you were invited here, but that you actually dare to show your face," John finally acknowledged.

"Ah, Captain High-and-Mighty, aren't you, Watson? Always thought yourself above me, didn't you?" the man spat out. "And what are you now? The do-everything for some psychopathic so-called detective? Come on, Watson, do tell, are you really just his flatmate?"

In the awkward silence that fell over the group as the confrontation grew, Sherlock was able to meet John's eye. The doctor could clearly read the plea in the detective's look, and after a moment's thought, gave the barest hint of a nod granting his permission to Sherlock's silent request.

With a devilish glint, Sherlock turned to Walters, displaying a deceptive charm. "Captain Walters, so pleased to meet you," he drawled in his feminized voice. Allow me to introduce myself. Shirley Holmes, sister to the psychopathic Sherlock Holmes you were speaking of just now, who – to set the record straight – is actually sociopathic."

Barely pausing for breath, Sherlock continued, batting his eyelashes in a seemingly innocent way while scanning the man from head to toe. "We Holmeses have this curious little habit of deducing people. I do so hope you won't mind if I try my talent out on you. Yes?"

Without allowing his victim time to respond, the detective pushed on letting go his deductions with his usual rapid-fire delivery. "Let's see. Your wife kicked you out of the house last month, when she found out that you were carrying on affairs with two – no, make that three – women simultaneously, one of whom is actually a transgender. Since your wife is the one with the money, and actually owns the house you lived in, you are currently homeless and living in your car since you have no friends who will assist you. You have no funds because you have been unsuccessfully involved in an illegal gambling ring. You were dishonorably discharged from the military following an investigation into missing Army supplies and weapons when you were stationed in Kandahar. Your hostility towards Captain Watson stems from his discovery and reporting of your involvement regarding the missing supplies while you both served together in Afghanistan. Finally, you indeed were _not_ invited to this affair, but hearing that Captain Watson would be in attendance, snuck your way in through the kitchen entrance in order to confront him. Have I missed anything," queried Sherlock, finishing with a sweet smile.

During Sherlock's deduction, Walters had been growing increasingly red, and the fury in his face by the end was fearsome. Exclaiming in rage, "Why you little bitch. . .," Walters lunged at Sherlock, but was suddenly pulled back by two burly Army soldiers who were acting as security for the evening. At the same time, John had thrown himself between the enraged former Army captain and his friend, ordering the soldiers to take Walters away and secure him. Sherlock took the opportunity of John's distraction to quickly e-mail Mycroft and ensure that Walters would never bother John Watson ever again.

With Sherlock's public put down of the unpopular Captain Walters, he suddenly became the belle of the ball, surrounded by a group of admiring officers and their dates, each clamoring for a deduction. The detective positively glowed with the attention, and delightedly complied with the requests.

Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, John watched the proceedings in amused acceptance, glad that everything had turned out for the best and that for once his friend's razor-sharp intelligence and often-caustic wit had found an appreciative audience.

The doctor's musings were interrupted by the comment of "_Interesting_" emitting from a deep voice to his left. Turning towards the speaker, he instantly snapped to attention. "General Claymore," he said in greeting to the impressive figure before him.

"Glad you could make it, Captain Watson," the general responded, shaking hands with the doctor.

"Thank you, sir". It is an honor to see you again, General. I'll never forget the kindness and inspiration you showed the men in Afghanistan, sir. Your visits helped us all through a very difficult time.

"It was the least I could do, Captain. You boys on the front lines showed an amazing amount of courage and ingenuity out there. I just wish I could have done more for you," the General nodded crisply, effectively but gently ending John's effusive praise. "And who is the lovely lady with the captivated audience?"

"Ah, that would be my date for the evening, sir. Shirley Holmes, sister of my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes," John answered, with a twinge of his conscious for deceiving the illustrious man before him, whom he greatly admired.

"Hmmm. I know the Holmes family quite well, Captain, and I'm quite certain that Mycroft and Sherlock are the only children.

With a feeling of dread overtaking him, John forced himself to look the general in the eye, only to relax instantly at the friendly twinkle to be seen in the man's eyes.

"Don't worry son. I've known Sherlock and the Holmes family long enough to be aware that their brilliance comes with definite quirks. I'm also aware that their loyalty is not easily won, but once gained, never wavers. Well done, Captain Watson. Now then, I'd best go find my wife, because unless I'm very much mistaken, the dancing is about to begin. Give my best to _Shirley_, Captain."

Watching the General saunter off in search of his wife, John once again made note that life with Sherlock brought one surprise after another – fortunately some of them being pleasant.

Turning back to where his flatmate had been entertaining, he realized that Sherlock's audience had deserted him for the dance floor, and that the detective was looking back at him with a "what next" expression on his face.

Exhaling a breath in resignation, John approached his friend as the music for the dancing began. "Well, Shirley, I suppose to keep up appearances, we had better dance" he stated, leading his partner to the dance area. "But you better bloody let me lead!" he continued in a low growl.

Fortunately, the first dance was a slow one, because John absolutely did not want to find out whether or not the stilettoed six-foot-plus detective in drag could "boogie".

They swayed gently to the music, a tranquil moment during an evening of eventful highs and lows. John sniffed appreciatively. "Nice choice in perfume, Sherlock."

"Thank you John. I took into consideration your favorite smells, and . . ."

"Sherlock!" his partner interrupted. Just accept the compliment and shut it," John hissed up into his ear. "By the way," he continued as they slowly circled, "just _how_ much practice have you had doing this, Sherlock, because you seem awfully proficient in it?"

"On second thought," John amended, "nix that. I don't want to know."

Relaxing to the music, the doctor lost himself in his thoughts.

That is, until Sherlock leant down and whispered into John's ear, "Put your hands on my bum, John."

"What?" sputtered his bewildered partner before remembering himself. "Have you lost that insanely large mind of yours," he hissed back.

"It will look more convincing, and give you a few points in the masculine department." The only response was a bemused look from the doctor.

Rolling his eyes at his friend's obstinacy, the detective grabbed his friend's hands - currently resting lightly on either side of his waist - and dragged them down and back to rest on his derrière. Apparently Sherlock was right (as usual), because as they rotated John could see one of his army buddies flashing him a thumbs-up in approval.

"Sherlock, since when did you acquire an arse?"

"I didn't realize you'd been checking out my backside, John," he smirked.

"Oh, don't give me that you git. You see everything. And as to your rear end, I see it more often than I like every time you go flying off somewhere leaving me behind, trying to catch up."

Upon mutual agreement, the pair decided to call the evening quits after the dance ended. Collecting their belongings from their dinner table, they uneventfully made their way out of the room, exchanging brief goodbyes with several people along the way, and pausing briefly to allow John to congratulate the ball's the guest of honor.

The taxi drive on the way home was largely silent. John spent the time reviewing the events of the evening, and Sherlock busily organized his experiences and new data in his mind palace.

Arriving back at 221B, John dropped into his chair while Sherlock slung off his stilettos with a vicious kick, flopping into his own chair.

"It completely eludes all logic," griped the detective while glaring at the shoes, "that women can not only wear and operate with those instruments of torture, but seemingly enjoy them so much that they collect them."

Examining the disgruntled man seated across him, John let out a giggle.

In response to his companion's elegantly raised eyebrow of inquiry, the doctor responded, "Of all the crazy things we've done, Sherlock, this may be the topper. And that says a lot." Bestowing a look of affection on this flatmate, John pushed his way up and out of his chair with a groan of fatigue. "I'm heading on up to bed."

Making his way across the room, he paused in the doorway, turning once more to his friend.

"Sherlock, I . . . uh . . ." _Why is this so difficult to get out?_ He tried again. "What you did tonight. That was good. Thank you."

Sherlock acknowledged him with nod and a small smile. "Anytime you need the assistance of Shirley, you need only ask, John."

"Uh, thanks Sherlock. But I think we'll keep it to a one time thing, yeah?"

FIN.

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**A/N: For all who have been following this story, thank you for your patience, as well for the reviews, follows, and favorites; they were greatly appreciated!**


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